


The End Of Yuu

by Grandpas_Cheesebarn



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One, Transformers: Prime
Genre: AU typical violence, Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Blood and Gore, Dark Humor, Decepticons Aren’t As Evil As Usual, Drama, F/M, Hero Decay, Horror, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Moral Dilemmas, POV Second Person, Protagonist Slides Down the Slippery Slope, Reader-Insert, Slight Decepticon AU, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Suspense, Thriller, Zombie Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-09
Updated: 2018-04-30
Packaged: 2019-04-20 17:40:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14266245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grandpas_Cheesebarn/pseuds/Grandpas_Cheesebarn
Summary: The keys to the safehouse burned a hole in your pocket, the documents searing your dashboard as you drove away.Infection. Viral. Fatal.Zombies, the document said.It was the beginning of the end. Or rather, the end of you.You were a government agent, assigned to decrypt and subsequently dismiss an alien signal. The zombie apocalypse was unexpected, but presented an opportunity: figure out who and what exactly this alien signal from Cybertron was. Though you quickly found that the biggest danger wasn’t the zombies themselves, but you.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah I’m just writing this for fun. Wanted a zombie fic, and I like Soundwave. Prepare for a slow build. I like world building a lot

It happened slowly. 

Ironic, for an apocalypse, but it was the truth. Slow enough that you hadn’t noticed, and neither had anyone else. 

Well, no, that was a lie. Samantha had noticed. But she’d always been too paranoid for her own good, and when she’d seen the signs, you ignored her. After all, you had papers to examine. A long stretch of code from somewhere beyond Jupiter had reappeared, probably just static noise, but it wouldn’t hurt to check. So you ignored Sam, but everyone did. That didn’t stop her from trying to warn you.

“Yuu,” Samantha stopped you, “You gotta listen to this.”

You removed your headset, frowning, “Sam, not again...”

But Sam continued, shoving the papers in front of you, “Look at these tests! The patients in the hospital are obviously infected with a new disease, one that’s self-replicating and regenerative!” She pointed to the photos, “Look at what it does to rats! Necro tissue is almost reanimated!”

You lowered her hand, “Connell, I don’t have time for this. I’m almost done deciphering this signal,” Which was true. And it was fascinating, almost alien, a language you couldn’t understand. If only your agency wasn’t the kind that dealt entirely with such things, sweeping them under the rug.

Samantha sighed and huffed, taking the papers back. She didn’t give up trying to warn you, right up until the day she didn’t show back up for work.

Government job. It meant you expected that kind of thing, didn’t question it. At least, not in your position. You went about your day as normal, and drove home as normal, but didn’t miss the way that the streets looked oddly empty. Decidedly not normal, to be precise. 

You still went to work the next day. More people missing. Intel said it was a viral outbreak, that the public didn’t know yet, but you found that hard to believe. Maybe Sam had been right, maybe the papers she left on her desk were correct after all. When you went home, you slept with your knife closer than normal, and tried not to notice the noises from across the hall.

When you went back into work, almost no one was there. Ms. Marston, the secretary, shoved Sam’s papers into your hands like they were on fire, along with papers from scientists on the inside. Viral outbreak. Infectious disease. Fatal. Reanimating corpses.

So, zombies.

Maybe you were lucky. When you ran to your boss, one Ms. Sato, she looked at you. Really looked at you. Peering past dark shades, and you wondered (not for the first time) if she was actually blind, or something else. 

“There’s a safehouse outside the city. It used to be made for signal tracking,” Ms. Sato stated, sliding some keys across the table, “Go there. Marston will give you the documents you need.”

You didn’t understand. 

“I always liked you, Yuu,” Ms. Sato pushed her chair back, standing up to her full height, “So I’m helping you.”

“Shouldn’t we stay and coordinate a counter?” You asked, your face twisting, “CDC should have something out, or maybe the military–“

“There’s nothing coming.”

You blinked. Asagi Sato, special operations director, government spook, sounded defeated. She continued. 

“Maybe some scientist in Bulgaria will have time for a cure, but I give this city a few days before it gets bad,” Ms. Sato turned to the wall, flexing her hand, frowning painted black lips, “I’m leaving. Winnie and I are bugging out, and you should too. We aren’t heroes; we push UFOs under the rug and keep secrets. Take this time to gather your affairs before you bug out too.”

You didn’t say much after that. Took the keys, the papers Ms. Marston gave you, went back to your desk. The signal had finished compiling, the word Soundwave the only thing visible. Whatever or whoever that was, you didn’t know. You didn’t have the time to check, either. Instead, you shoved the data onto a flashdrive, before yanking the drive out and putting it into your pocket. Then, you took a deep breath, taking Sam’s papers as well, before leaving the building. Slowly, a sort of numbness set in. Your entire body felt like it was dipped in ice water. Waiting at stoplights on subdued streets, passing by crowds of coughing citizens, it felt like you’d disconnected. You went through the motions of locking your car and riding the elevator to your apartment, but you couldn’t ignore the noises outside again, the hacking and wheezing from across the hall. In a day or more, the public would realize what had happened. Then, there’d be the absolute fear, panic. The panic of a dying animal, frightened and cornered. As you stepped into your apartment, you couldn’t help but stop, standing there like a statue. 

So you’d been frightened. Who wouldn’t be. You just found out that the world was ending. You couldn’t tell anyone, because it was too late, and you didn’t have anyone you could tell if you wanted, no loved ones left alive. It was just you, alone, staring out your apartment window, trying to capture the fleeting normality of life. How mundane and pedestrian, but at the threat of vanishing, became too precious to grasp. 

You didn’t have time to waste. Time was valuable, now more than ever. And so, you were quick, entering your room and opening the closet. With your job, you’d already prepared a bug-out bag, or BOB for short. But, you still had time to pack some extras. The extra large black dufflebag went on the bed, and you readied.

Clothes first. Sturdy clothes, warm clothes, clothes that were useful and versatile. Nothing fancy, not anymore. But you couldn’t resist the urge to put in one dress shirt. After that, underwear, packs of cotton socks and durable underpants. You’d found that the latex kind worked best for your job. Now, you were glad you had so many. Finally, a quick last sweep of the bedroom. Personal effects were slid in carefully, pictures of people you loved and small mementos you’d kept. Mental health was just as important as the physical. You assumed that the safehouse would have blankets and pillows, but still swiped your old stuffed animal. Then, gently, you closed your bedroom door and locked it. Sentimental. It wouldn’t stop someone who was trying to get in, but...

Well.

Onto the living room. 

The same affair. Place the duffle down, next to the BOB. Carefully select the books you wanted, the survival guides and the novels that could be reread. Nothing else from the living room except your houseplant. Cornelius. You didn’t have pets, but your fern came in a close second. You placed him next to the BOB, before turning to the bathroom.

The bathroom was a tricky one. Cleaning agents would be valuable, so you took all you could, fitting them into the bag. The same for any medications you had, all thrown in. Before you left, you tied the surgical mask around your face, the one Samatha had gotten you from Japan specifically. It had a nice design on the front.

It would, incidentally, be the only aspect of your outfit that you’d never change again. Jackets wore down and went, but the mask never did. 

The end of the bathroom. You locked the door too, habit, before turning to the kitchen. Your duffle was out of space, but thankfully you’d brought another, one meant specially for all the food you’d have to take. You didn’t have many canned or dry goods, living the single life in a lonely apartment, but you had a fair amount. Enough to fill the second duffle, at least.

And then, that was it. There was nothing left for you. Your apartment was still lived in, still alive, the television still playing and the streets still noisy down below. But somehow, it felt different. Like you were sealing a crypt, somewhere you’d never return. Perhaps that was because you wouldn’t. With the two bags on your back, one in your hand, and Cornelius in the other, you carefully closed the door. The two locks clicked, and once they did, you blinked a little.

It was over. 

As you walked down the hall, you waved goodbye to the doorman. Clarence, was his name. He laughed and asked where you were going, and you smiled, said it was camping. Said that he should get out of the city too. It would be good for him.

Maybe he’d seen something in your eyes. Or your stance. Or maybe the words struck true. Whatever it was, Clarence seemed to pale. Yes, he decided. Yes, he’d get out. His family always wanted to go to Niagara Falls, after all. A surprise trip couldn’t hurt. 

You piled your bags into your car, setting Cornelius into the passenger seat and buckling him in. Then, you sat down in the driver’s seat, putting the keys into the ignition. As you pulled into the street, you looked back at the apartments. Your home. Once home, maybe, but no more. The keys to the safehouse burned a hole in your pocket, the documents searing your dashboard as you drove away.

Infection. Viral. Fatal.

Zombies, the document said.

It was the beginning of the end. Or rather, the end of you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The character name is a double meaning and the story title is a double meaning. Or maybe a triple meaning.


	2. Chapter 2

The safehouse was government. So, you hadn’t expected much. Outside the city, meant for alien signals, no less. It sounded like the place of exile for workers that couldn’t be fired but were too incompetent to work at a real position. You hadn’t expected much. But, it was actually quite nice. Perhaps Ms. Sato hadn’t been lying when she said she liked you. 

It was a fair way outside the city, about an hour or so down winding roads. Tucked away, but not quite. Close, but not too close. If you squinted, you could pretend it was the city on the horizon, far away, the lights against the orange backdrop of the sky. Just a mirage, no doubt, but the idea was comforting.

The safehouse was plain. The perimeter was enclosed by a chain link fence, barbed wire at the top. A little much, even for government. But you soon realized that it had been done under the guise of ‘wildlife deterrent,’ or so the signs said. A wildlife outpost by day, a government safehouse by night. 

It would explain the long driveway, the open space around the building itself, the water tower and the watchtower. You pulled your car in, grabbing your bags, before approaching the door. It unlocked, and you felt some of the tension leave your shoulders. It wasn’t just a joke. Then, at the same time, more tension returned. After all, it wasn’t a joke. You clicked on the lights, setting your bags down on the concrete floors. Whoever had designed the facility designed it well, a layout optimal for defensive strategy, only a few carefully placed windows, lots of space to move but tight corridors to slow. In fact, aside from a common area and a garage, everything else was on the second floor. Just like the outside area, it made you feel safer. You set about figuring out exactly what your new...home had to offer. 

Home.

You’d better get used to it.

A kitchen, with appliances. A store room, with MREs and water, along with boxes and cans. A bathroom, stocked with amenities. Two bedrooms. Back to the first floor, there was a common area, with easy access to the basement. Though, less a basement and more a bunker. Should anything go wrong, that is. And finally, one garage, with a water purifier and a generator. You quickly opened up the garage, setting your car inside and closing it in. Once that was done, you sighed.

No time to unpack. Not yet, at least. You had to secure the perimeter, prepare the area and yourself. If the city only had a few days, you gave yourself four or five until things started trickling to you. Not enough time to prepare. Never enough. But you’d wasted time all your life, and so, you pushed on. 

First came the perimeter check. All the fences were secure, no openings. The building itself was on a slight hill , elevated. It gave you an advantage towards looking outwards. You made sure to lock the front gate, just to be safe, before hurrying back. The windows weren’t safe. Arguably, windows were never safe. Windows on anything were always a weakness, but you’d make do. There was spare plywood in the garage, and a drill, so you grabbed as many as you could and set to work.

Though there were only a few windows on the ground floor, you had to get it right. There were no second chances. The rest of the day was spent putting up the plywood, and waiting. Once even the most basic hint of darkness fell, you ran inside, locking the doors tight. There wasn’t any reason to barricade the doors just yet, but you felt inexplicably anxious. You sat down in front of the TV with some of the more recent non perishable food, turning it on. Just to check.

And...

The news wasn’t good. 

“Local woman hospitalized after attacking dog,”...”Hospitals filling up with unknown disease,”...”Worker claims man bit him,”...”Missing person reports have nearly doubled over the last few days,”...

You changed the channel. Couldn’t stand to look at it, nor think about it. Instead, you settled on a cooking show. Or maybe it was a game show. All that mattered was that it didn’t, the smiling faces of the oblivious people, happy. 

You watched less than an hour, before shutting it off. Instead you grabbed your bags, dragging them up the stairs and setting about unpacking everything. Cornelius went by the window. Clothes went into the closet. Medication into the bathroom, all that. But, as you shoved your hand into your pocket, you paused. The flashdrive was still there. You took it out, eyeing it, blinking. Then, slowly, you made your way to the laptop provided, inserting the drive and booting the computer up. A quick few clicks, and the program started running automatically again. A finger poised over the unmute key, and after a moment’s hesitation, you pressed down.

A lovely sound filled the space. Robotized, harmonized. It sounded like a synthesizer, of sorts, deep and intriguing. If you could understand the words, it would be even better. But...

Ah. You didn’t really have a job anymore, did you? Which meant, you didn’t really have to sweep it under the rug. Not anymore.

In a flash, you grabbed the laptop, running down the room. Ms. Sato said that the safehouse was made for tracing alien signals. You hurried down the stairs, through the common room, before jumping down into the basement. The computer setup down there was meant for government use, an expansive array of monitors and machines. You set the laptop down and shoved in the connecting cable, and watched.

A deep breath. A blink. Then, once the signal had finished, you pulled it up. Held it open on the gigantic screen, the blue lighting the only illumination in the space, casting strange shadows across the room. With the aid of the proper software, the code was deciphered, the language revealed. 

It was a harmonic sound. Musical, filling the space, making you step back. It told you a story that you didn’t understand, of a species that sounded older than you could dream. Cybertronians. Cybertron. A battle, a war. And, it gave you a name. Soundwave.

There was life out there. Your agency had been the ones that looked for life, hid any signs of it away. Most were distant, far in Andromeda. Species that had long since died, by the light years of space. But, this signal...

You leaned back in, typing some things, entering codes. You didn’t know who sent the message, but you fiercely needed to know, had to know, who was out there and was coming to Earth. Maybe to warn them. Maybe to beg their help. Shakily, you brought the microphone to your face, your throat suddenly dry.

“My name is Yuu Yamazaki, human of Earth. Humanity will die soon,” You paused, the somber message, intended for an audience in the vastness of space, “To ahighly aggressive mutated virus, with the ability to raise the dead and turn them into hostile carriers of the disease.“

“I was able to decode your message, but I don’t know how long we have left,” You glances down at your hands, studying the indents and callouses, “Whoever receives this, please. I...,” You stopped yourself. You wanted them to come and help, but what if that was the wrong choice? What if that killed them too? You couldn’t do that. So, you took a deep breath, then steeled yourself, turned your heart cold, “Stay away. There’s nothing left.”

You ended the recording. Then, through the software and the satellites, you sent the message out. Out, into space, to a place past Jupiter. Out, to the one who had tried to give you hope.

When you went to bed that night, you still held onto that hope, despite the gnawing fear in your heart. Unfortunately, the hope had mostly left over morning, but the fear remained. And it only grew worse as the days went on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hnnn next chapter gets zombies because I want zombies


	3. Chapter 3

Slowly, the news went from bad to worse.

Or maybe it was quickly.

It was only a matter of days. Days you spent securing the safehouse, organizing the resources, rechecking for any other signals from the strangers in space. You existed in a bubble, almost. You were glad, in a way, for it. Because the news didn’t spare any details. 

Soon, it went from this...

“Teenager found dead,”...”Mother mutilates children,”...”Packs of humans infected with rabies?”...”Danger in the streets!”...

To this;

“State of emergency declared!”...”National guard called in,”...”Mysterious infection death toll rises,”...”Citizens urged to seek shelter.”

Until it stopped entirely. Just a constant loop of the same information, the anchors gone. They’d been coughing, so that was enough of a tell. It was only a matter of time until the channel stopped completely. 

It was around that day that you decided to venture out. Not far, just a house away. You needed to gather more data on the zombies, and if you were being frank, you also wanted to check on your neighbors. Only neighbors for miles, in that regard. You hoped they made it out okay...

And so you suited up. Light body armor, handgun with bullets, running shoes. You slid on a bag with devices for automatic data analysis, then hurried to the garage. You wouldn’t be taking the car, despite wanting to. You weren’t sure how bad it had gotten and didn’t want to risk the noise or attention it might bring. Maybe it was the wrong choice, but you went with the provided all-terrain bicycle. In another scenario you might have chosen differently, but you didn’t. 

Riding down the drive and onto the road was unsettling. Quiet, but not quiet. Eerie, unsettling. The sound of tires on the ground, your subdued breathing, the clicking of gears and chains as you shifted. You took care not to zoom out, but even with your memory, you knew you’d have to stop soon. Check to see how close you were getting. And it was around the time you stopped, pulling out your phone and letting your breath soak into your surgical mask, that you heard them.

Them being the noises. The shuffling, the dragging across grass, and popping of bones and the heavy inhales.

It was, in fact, a zombie. Only one, from what you could see, and it didn’t notice you. They shambled across the ground, as if they didn’t have a care in the world. You stood frozen in place, unable to move, fixated on watching it.

They were dressed in casual clothing, still fresh enough that they might’ve been human only a day ago. Their clothes were torn near the leg, and from there a chunk had been ripped out, the dried blood still staining the fabric. In fact, more blood was under their fingernails, speckles on the hand and drips from the mouth and nose. As it walked, they occasionally made a huff or a strangled sound. 

You were... horrified. You’d seen the news, but seeing one up close was different. It was the difference between reading about a plane crashing, and suddenly finding yourself aboard one. The zombie slowly ambled forward, their throat wheezing, eyes bulged out but glassy and white. You began to step backwards, quiet, but the sudden _CRACK_ of stepping on a stick ruined that. The zombie’s head snapped towards you, and they released the most guttural, growling scream you’d ever heard. Their jaw distended, and then in the space of an instant, they rushed to you. You panicked, grabbing at the first thing you could, pointing the pistol at the charging creature and–

The shot cracked through the area, scaring away the birds. The skull of the zombie exploded, brain and gore flying out from the wound and spraying the grass as they fell to the ground. Red seeped into the earth, and you could only stare. The shock flooded your system, as you realized that you’d just killed someone. They were sick, and hurt, and you’d killed them.

You barely turned your head in time to vomit into the nearby bushes. After a few minutes of heaving, you remembered that guns were loud, and that the sound would only bring trouble. You couldn’t waste anymore time. You spared one final shaking glance at the fallen corpse and sped away on your bike, resolving to return later to bury them at the very least. For now, you kept on going, your course still (passably) steady towards the neighbor’s house.

From what you could tell, the neighbors were older. A husband and wife, retired, perhaps farmers at one point. Their children had all moved out long ago, leaving them to live alone, enjoying the later years of their life. Even though you’d never met them, they sounded like good people. And in that vein, you sincerely hoped they were okay. 

After pedaling for quite some time, and crossing large swaths of empty, you finally reached the house. Small, a family home, two stories tall and double garage. The yard was large, unused farmland behind it, fenced off with a sturdy wooden fence. No zombies around, no danger. You couldn’t see any cars, which was reassuring. The brakes on your bicycle made no noise as you slowed to a stop, coasting the rest of the driveway distance to the front porch. You stowed your bike to the side, before unholstering your gun once more. Then, cautiously, you approached the front door.

Knock. One knock, careful, the light rasping of your knuckles on the wood. You kept your finger off the trigger, but your senses raised, waiting for any sound of movement. 

You received nothing. Carefully, you tried the door handle. It was unlocked, and so you gingerly pushed it open. The hinges creaked noisily in the dead air, and you cringed. But, still, nothing came of it. And so you stepped forward, using the insides of your feet to shift your weight and avoid the squeaks of wooden floorboards. 

The foyer was homely. At the front was a wooden staircase, leading up. To the right was a hallway, ending at what presumably was the kitchen. A living room to the left, a bathroom to the right. As you walked further into the house, you occasionally glanced around. Pictures hung on the wall, of happy families, of men in military uniform, daughters graduating. The small houseplant, here or there, wilting. You narrowed your eyes, but kept on.

You checked the bathroom first. Nothing. Medications still out, sink dry. No one had been out and using them for a day or more, at the very least. Maybe they’d been left in a hurry. No matter. You left the bathroom, and went to check the living room.

Living room was the same, in those regards. Mementos, precious memories left abandoned, dusty bookcases and an older television. Next to the armchair, a glass of water, forgotten. There was still a plate with toast and jam on it. The only sign of something amiss was the picture near the kitchen doorway that had been knocked over. You picked it up, mindful of the shards of glass on the ground. Family photo. A happy memory, one you felt oddly intrusive for having examined. So, carefully, you set it back on the shelf, then continued onto the kitchen.

Something was off. You noticed it almost immediately, and quickly realized it was the fridge. Left open, a carton of eggs strewn across the floor. They hadn’t had the chance to go bad, you realized with a slight twinge of fear. It had only been a day, at maximum. Perhaps, you reassured, they’d just recently left. They’d been rushed, but they made it out. No car meant that they’d have to have done that, and no broken windows or blood meant no zombie attack. A final cursory glance around the kitchen revealed little else, an open storage closet with canned goods, a basement. You’d leave the basement for last, the door locked from the inside. And so, you slowly made your way back to the staircase, your boots on the rug. Carefully, up you walked.

The stairs didn’t creak. That wasn’t to say they weren’t the kind of stairs that creaked, but rather, you were very good at being sneaky. Three rooms. Likely a bathroom, a master bedroom, and a guest bedroom. But as you stepped up to the banister, your nose twitched. And, with the feeling of deep foreboding, you realized it was the smell of blood.

You followed it to the left. The master bedroom. The door was already partially opened, and so you very slowly pushed it open, one hand still aiming the pistol in front of yourself. The smell got stronger. You willed your eyes into focus, fighting the daylight that flooded from the window, until your scanning stopped on the bed. And then you stopped as well. 

Blood. Not the color of fresh blood, but not old. Somewhere in the middle. It had soaked into the sheets, dripping onto the floor and staining the rug. A few pillows were strewn about, thrown. And on the bed, a body. An older woman, in her everyday clothes, face contorted in fear. At the very least, she hadn’t been mauled by a zombie, you noted distantly. The strikes were too precise for that. A fireaxe, slashes across the torso, bruises from the blunt end. 

A government job meant criminology courses in college.

You paused, standing rigidly at the edge of the bed. At the very least, the body hadn’t started to rot yet. You hesitated a moment, before reaching out and closing her eyelids. It seemed like the right thing to do. Then, you remembered that she’d been married, and slowly turned around.

There was a closet in the bedroom. Half a body hung out of it, slumped onto the floor. The other half was inside, clutching a gunsafe. The husband. Older, like the wife, but his face was one of shock and rage. Or rather, the part that was left. Some of it had been slashed or bludgeoned. You couldn’t tell, because you hadn’t wanted to. All that mattered was that he’d died trying to protect his family. The gunsafe, you slowly realized, was open. And empty. The slip of paper inside was easy enough to grab and read, documentation for a shotgun. A shotgun that was no longer there. 

Either the husband had sold and forgotten about selling his gun, at a most inopportune time, or it had been taken. You set the paper back down, moving to stand up. 

The sound of noises made you stop. You dropped back down to a crouch, straining your hearing. A car shutting off. Doors closing. Footfalls on dirt, heavy, three or four.

“I’m telling you Mikey, there’s nothing to worry about here,” A male voice filtered up, “It’s all clean. Jim made sure of it.”

“Did he make sure, or did he make sure?” Another voice snorted. Maybe it was Mikey. Getting closer to the house.

“I made sure,” A third voice assured, “Pow. Ha,” The sound of a gun being cocked. Jim, maybe. The implication made your eyes narrow, your stomach twist.

“Give me that, you idiot,” a forth one hissed, snatching it away, “You don’t even know how to shoot it,” The shotgun, maybe, “Here, Jay, take it.”

“Guys, wait. Why’s the front door open?” Mikey muttered. All movement stopped. You mentally cursed yourself for not closing it, but it was too late for that now. Murmuring from the trio, before they slowly filtered in, their footsteps loud in the house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My dudes it has only been like maybe four days. Why y’all looting


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yuu gets pretty violent with an axe towards the end, heads up seven up if you don’t wanna see that

“Come out, zombie,” Jim called, “I won’t hurt you. My axe and I just wanna talk.”

“Mikey, you go check the upstairs. I’ll check the garage, Raynor will check the rest of the first floor, and Jim can check the basement. Come on. Sooner we do this, sooner we can loot and leave.”

Looters, then. Looters and murderers. You couldn’t... you couldn’t just leave them to keep going. They’d killed these people, murdered and tortured them, and wasn’t it your job to protect people? You worked for the government. It was your duty to protect, and if protecting meant killing these murderers...You first went for your pistol, only to stop. If you were going to do it silently, you couldn’t use the gun. At least, not at first. Instead, you unsheathed a knife, and carefully crept into a dark corner, waiting for the opportunity. You compartmentilized, shoving away all of your feelings and misgivings, and willing yourself to ash. The hunter did not bait a wolf trap with flies. You sucked in a low breath of air, before letting it out in a quiet, subdued keen. 

You waited. The sound of footsteps hurrying up the stairs, searching the hall. First, the bathroom, yanking the shower curtain back. 

“Come on out, you son of a bitch,” Mikey growled. Then, he moved to the guest bedroom. Nothing. That is to say, nothing but creaking floorboards and heavy steps, maybe some cobwebs and dust. Finally, the master bedroom, where you laid in wait. The door was already open, and so in he went. From the corner, you could see him enter, tall stance and dark hair. He wielded a crowbar, and his eyes darted around the room, sliding right over you and landing on the wife’s body. 

“Shit, Jimmy, you really did a number here,” Mikey whistled, walking up to the bodies. His back was turned away from you, and so you noiselessly pressed off the wall, creeping forward. 

“Whatever. It ain’t like they’re using any of the stuff anymore,” Mikey snorted. You wondered if it was hard, being that aloof all the time. But you didn’t really care to ask, either. You slowly rose yourself up.

“Jay, I–“

You stabbed forward. Knife at the base of the skull, shoved in. Less messy that way, no spray of blood like a throat slash. You wanted to be merciful, even if they didn’t deserve it. Mikey’s sentence transformed into a rush of air, like a balloon deflating. You let go of the knife and wrapped your arms around his torso, just enough to prevent him from making a noise as he fell to the ground. A few gurgles, before going silent. You set the body on the floor, hesitating a moment, before leaving the knife there. You could get it later, probably. Didn’t feel right...

Deep breaths. You had to do it. You killed a person, but if you hadn’t, they’d have killed someone else. They already had. It was your job to protect people, right? 

You’d deal with that later. Quiet, you stepped out of the room, lingering in the hallway as you listened. Jim in the kitchen. That meant...Jay was in the garage, probably. Your boots were light on the stairs and you hung right, making for the garage. The door was already open, so you carefully entered, letting your eyes adjust to the dark as you pressed the door closed behind yourself. You unholstered your pistol, clicking the safety off. The garage would be quiet enough. And the man of the hour was already there, eyeing the garage, shotgun in hand. 

Jay was a foot less tall than Mikey might have been. But the shotgun made up for it, and by the look of things, he knew how to shoot it. The black mask seemed a little overkill. 

Not even a few days into the apocalypse and they’d already turned to murder.

It was service, you reminded yourself. 

“Hope Mikey’s doing all right up there,” Jay began, sniffing once, “Probably should check up on him. Al would kill me if anything happened.”

Damnit.

Instead of a fluid, calculated motion, you rushed it. Just, aimed the pistol, pulled the trigger, and fired. The shot connected, but it was in the chest. The lungs, you realized. Jay dropped his shotgun, grasping at his torso in shock. Your eyes went wide as you cursed, and he turned, just enough time to look you in the eyes in confusion. Your next shot didn’t miss your mark, the heart, and he was dead before he hit the ground. You squeezed your eyes shut, forcing the feelings of discomfort from your mind. You just had to do this, then you could...

Do whatever it was you were going to do. 

You exited the garage, willing your heart to ice. One more on the first floor. In the kitchen, you reminded yourself. The floor didn’t creak, the rug muffling your steps. You peered in, spotting a man with a fire axe, blond hair tied back. His back was turned away, and you hurried forward, gripping the pistol. What you didn’t expect was for your foot to squeak on the tile, a brief slip. It caught his attention and he spun around, confused. 

“Who the hell are–“ Raynor began. You panicked and rose the gun.

“Drop the axe!” You demanded. Raynor froze, then very slowly set the fire axe on the ground, before standing back up, his arms raised in a pacifying motion.

“You don’t have to do this,” Raynor tried, “If you shoot me, my friends will hear.”

You didn’t tell him that all his friends were dead. It seemed cruel. 

“Just let me walk out,” Raynor pleaded, “We’ll leave you alone, I swear.”

Raynor made the fatal mistake of trying to take a step forward, an attempt at pacification. It didn’t work. You squeezed your finger and fired, shielding your eyes from the sight. It was a headshot. Once the ringing died down, you tentatively opened your eyes, taking in the sight of the blood splatter, the brain and gore. Part of your stomach curdled, and you hastened to grab the axe as you backpedaled to the basement door, shoving your gun into the holster. Only one left. Jim.

The basement stairs were noisy, and your steps were loud, but Jim was humming and you were too wired up to even attempt to be quiet. From the stairs, you could see him, rummaging through old boxes, occasionally throwing a thing aside. He was heavy, brunette hair, soft features and a whiny voice as he muttered to himself. 

“Can’t believe Raynor took my axe,” He grumbled. You stepped closer, but he continued undaunted, “Just because I killed the old farts, so what? They deserved it.”

Your grip on the axe tightened. You shouldn’t have taken it personally, but you did. The sight of their bodies gracelessly dropped where they’d stood, left to rot. Your hand inched away from hovering over your pistol, and instead drew to grip the other side of the axe handle. You brought it closer to yourself.

“Wonder what kinda stuff they got down here. Maybe something worth stealing,” Jim whistled, before returning to a low hum, out of key and dull, “About the only thing they were worth, probably, hm.”

You stepped on a shard of broken glass. Jim lifted his head.

“Raynor? Is that you?” He asked, not even turning around, “Can we go? This is boring.”

He’d killed those people. He’d slaughtered them in cold blood, for no reason. It wasn’t even a week after first infection. There was no reason to kill so senselessly, and you knew he’d do it again.

Ice, you willed your heart, stone. You rose the axe. Jim turned around, saw you, and squealed.

The axe came down. He tried to dodge, but all that did was mess up your swing, directing the slash across his arm. It was a sharp axe, and you were a heavy hitter, so what might’ve been a glancing blow was a deep wound. The blood sprayed across your pants, but you didn’t notice. Instead, you stared him down.

“Isn’t this what you did to them?”  
You asked. The first crack in your calm compartmentalism. You were dimly aware that the lighting in the basement, uneven across your form, made you look like some vengeful ghost. 

“I didn’t have a choice!” Jim wheedled, voice grating your ears. You rose the axe back up.

“There’s always a choice!” You shouted, and the final crack in your calm viasage shattered you down the middle. A downwards swing. The torso, this time, lodging deep. You yanked it back out, the blood making your grip loose, the splatter across your jacket. Jim made some pitiful noise. A part of you wanted to stop, but some thing prevented you, some force made you keep going. All you could do was watch as you swung and swung, slashing and hacking, like a horror movie. And you were horrified. You didn’t stop until long after Jim had stopped moving, and your clothes were filthy, and there were tears streaming down your face. You finally dropped the axe once you lost your grip, and you couldn’t see past the stinging in your eyes, and your throat hurt from screaming. 

“Oh god,” You whispered, backpedaling, “Oh god.”

Sensibly, you turned around before you vomited. Less of a mess. Then you vomited again, just for good measure. After that, you forced yourself to look at what you’d done. 

It was a slaughter. There was hardly anything left of the man. And there your axe lay, coated in enough red to paint a fire truck. You kicked it with your foot, taking steady breaths, before shoving any and all emotions down and away. You compartmentalized. You dimly grabbed a pair of work gloves, rolled up your sleeves, and went hunting for some trash bags. Then, in Jim went, for transport. You drug him upstairs, then did the same for all of the other bodies, converging them all in the kitchen. One by one, you took them outside. There was a pit near the back, likely dug to be a compost pit in the coming season. Well. New use. You carefully set the bodies down into it, side by side, before going off to find a shovel to fill the hole. 

The work was monotonous, but it kept your mind off of what you’d done. Were you any better than those bandits? You’d killed them in self-defense, you tried to reason, but was it really? Did you have to torture them? Why?

Soon, there wasn’t anymore shoveling to be done, and it would be getting sunset soon. You walked back to the house, picking up the fire axe. Then, you locked the door behind yourself, and left, hoping on your bicycle to ride back home.

The home was empty. A tomb, forever. That was fine. 

You pedaled, passing by the zombie from earlier. You’d bury them soon, you promised. But not now. You were so tired, couldn’t even bare to look at yourself. By the time you arrived back home, your shoulders were slumped, your stance heavy. A quick perimeter check, the lodging secure, before you crawled back into the safehouse and locked the door. 

Your clothes would need washed. Or burnt. One or the other. You set the axe down near the door, before heading to the basement, intent on throwing the clothes into the wash basin you’d set up for stains. 

What you didn’t expect was to see the large computer pinging. A little pulsing blue light, nothing more. But to you, it meant the world. It meant another message had been received and decoded during your absence. You scrambled over to the computer, frantic to see what it had found.

A message. Your heart skipped. You barely had sense of mind to wipe your hands of blood before entering in commands on the keyboard, bringing up the message, your heart hammering. 

It was sound. _Sound_. No words, just excited noises, and at first you worried something had broken, but then you realized... it wasn’t the same person from before. It wasn’t the same one that had told you their story. 

I’m Bumblebee, this one said. Don’t be scared! We’ll be there to help you.

You felt so much relief, you almost vomited a fourth time that day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hero Decay is my absolute favorite


	5. Chapter 5

In the realms of the fallen, you were king. 

It had been two weeks. Specifically, fourteen days since the start of the outbreak. One week after you’d visited the neighbors, one week after you’d killed the looters and buried them in a mass grave. Fourteen days of dwindling food supplies.

The messages from the strangers. From Soundwave, from Bumblebee. Your head was twisted around, trying to figure out what was happening, who these aliens from beyond the reach of space _were._. You had to know, but you couldn’t, at least not here. The safehouse was good, but lacked in the equipment you needed. It could decode, not search. That meant a trip to the city.

Unfortunate didn’t even begin to describe it. You sat, staring out the window, watching the distance. As if something would come of your watching. Sometimes you saw helicopters, flying to the city. They never came back. At night, you might hear zombies outside, ambling in the fields. You could see for miles, but the sight of them only made you more uneasy. Two weeks. It might as well have been a decade. 

You stood up, walking around the common room. The electricity had shut off a week ago. Or maybe more than a week ago. The television had stopped broadcasting anything but emergency stations, and the radio wasn’t any better. As long as you had the generator, you were fine. 

Maybe if you kept saying it you’d believe it too.

But you didn’t have time to put it off any longer. You wanted to...something. You wanted hope, more than anything, and so you would contact them again or die trying. A trip to the city wasn’t a suicide mission, but it was close. You prepared accordingly. Which is to say, you put on the best light armor you had, the kind to stop bullets and bites. Your clothing was durable, any loose ends tied off or taped down, while you put an empty bag on your back. The holster for your pistol, the extra ammo pouches, the flashlight, the emergency rations. And, after a moment’s hesitation, the fire axe on your back.

You couldn’t get rid of it, despite your wishes. It felt safer, having something heavy like that around, something that wouldn’t make as much noise as a gun. You even named it Matt, after a fashion. Matt. Matt had a slightly chipped head, wrapping around the burnt handle, and had the unfortunate history of being used to murder someone. Maybe multiple someones. Perhaps Matt was haunted. Wouldn’t that be funny.

You went for the car this time. You didn’t want to risk biking into the city, especially considering...everything about the city. The equipment you were planning on grabbing wouldn’t be very large, so you could probably slot it into your backpack. That is, if the equipment was still there. You had a list of locations it could be at, and if those failed, you had a backup backup. But, you didn’t want to go back to the old headquarters if you had to. Maybe you were afraid of what you’d find.

It didn’t matter. Not now, at least. You got into the car, turning it on, checking your mirrors and blinking the sunspots away. No seatbelt. The last thing you wanted was to get caught dead because of your seatbelt. Which was a little bit of irony, you mused, starting up the car and slowly driving out of the safehouse area. At the very least, the drive was calm. So far from the city, tucked down winding roads, not much had changed. The occasional zombie, but no roaming hordes. You almost felt a little bad for them, stumbling in the dirt, but you shook your head and made your heart ice. Your empathy would help no one, and especially not them. Not anymore. Better to burn it while you had the chance.

More driving. Time passed, the landscape slowly changing, empty farmland turning to the occasional house, turning to zombies and abandoned cars, lampposts and bus stops and shattered glass. Just like your heart, the sky was overcast. You knew you crossed the edge of the suburbs when the sounds changed for the worse. You blocked them out and focused on your surroundings, painting a mental map of what you saw for future reference, slowing your car to a whisper on the road.

Houses. Of course there were houses. Single story, two story, their doors thrown open or boarded up. Some had banners on their roof, torn and held down with bricks. Rarely, one would be burnt up, a charred husk, the grass scorched and the smell still smoldering. Worth mentioning were the corpses, littered around, next to the upturned bins and scattered trash. Most were dead, gory messes that stared unblinkingly at nothing. The more unfortunate were still alive. Zombies, that is to say. Four weeks had not been kind to them, four weeks had been cruel and callous, decomposing and rotting in the sun. The smell, though, was a different matter, mixed with the breeze and the rot to become a terrible cocktail. You were only slightly glad for your surgical mask, just to filter out some. Not enough. You kept driving, trying not to look into the broken houses, searching for any lives left. You couldn’t help them. You didn’t pay attention to the way a curtain shifted or a house looked mostly intact, and kept driving. Into the city. The city, then back.

If the suburbs were bad, the city was worse. Population compression meant more zombies, but less places to run, tight alleyways and narrow streets. You spent an hour just trying to navigate it, getting your car past the many that had been left abandoned during rush hour. The zombies were more agitated in the city, snapping and snarling at nothing and everything. In the city, you could hear more noises, sounds of distant screams, gunshots that broke the quiet. The smells, too, were different. You’d been raised in the city, knew the groundwork of each scent like your back hand, but the perversion it had become with the apocalypse was a horrible mockery. You tried not to think about it, kept driving. At least, you didn’t have to worry about seeing faces in the shadows of building in the city. The windows were much too high. 

You finally reached your destination. A large parking lot, hundreds of forgotten cars, and all the zombies that came with them. You quietly pulled in as close as you dared, glancing out the window to the building that dominated the horizon: the Center. It was the largest vertical mall in the area, a necessity in cities where space was a valuable commodity. As you looked up at the tall structure, you caught light gleaming off the top windows, cloth banner that waved in the wind: help.

Right by the electronics department, too. Well. Looked like you might have to make contact, whether you liked it or not.

You exited your car, taking stock. Armor ready, unrestrictive, bag on the back next to the axe, holsters with flashlights and ammo and a pistol in case of something dire. Hesitantly, you taped once on your surgical mask, before sighing. You were ready. Well, as ready as you’d ever be, considering what you were about to do. A few deep breaths, before you began walking, stealthily weaving through the rows of cars. Out as far as you were, there weren’t as many zombies, those few unlucky souls that hadn’t made it to the mall. Or maybe lucky, if the sounds coming from the mall were anything to judge by. By chance, you stumbled upon a directory, stuck to a windshield. Ziegler City Mall Center Directory. Electronics was the fifth floor. Along with that, there was the usual stuff on the other floors, clothing and furniture. You nodded to yourself, before folding up and putting it in a front pocket. Unfortunately for you, the zombies were congregated around the main entrance. You opted to sneak around the side for a service door. 

After a few minutes of searching, you found a suitable entrance. Only a single zombie, too. You could try to sneak past it, but any zombie you left alive was a zombie that could hurt someone. It was like putting down a dog, you reminded yourself. You were helping.

You took out your axe, not quite trusting the pistol. Carefully, you crept to the zombie. Female, once, half its arm torn off. It didn’t even notice you, busy banging it’s head on a wall, over an over. You inhaled decisively, before bringing the axe back, and swinging. 

Axe met flesh with a muffled, wet sound. The blade was planted deep in the back of the creature’s skull, and it slumped to the ground, dead. Well, more dead. You walked up to it, putting your boot in its back, using the weight to pull the axe back out. Some flecks of blood flew out with it, and you forced yourself to ignore them. You were helping, you reminded yourself, you were helping. 

With the way to the door open, you quickly went inside, axe at the ready. Though it was only midday, you still flicked the flashlight on, the hallways dark without the aid of electricity. Slowly, you went down the service corridor. Or, employee area. You weren’t sure what it was, but it was empty, mostly, and that was good enough for you. A lot of the rooms were closed, a rare few barricaded, and you left them that way. You needed to find the stairs to get to the fifth floor, that was all. If you were lucky, maybe you’d find some things to take back. You’d need food supplies soon, but, as you stepped out into the plaza concourse area, you decided against it.

Basement level was groceries, after all, and judging by the hulking dark mass of zombies at the stairs that way, not to mention the smell, you weren’t going down there anytime soon. You’d have to grab whatever you could find on the upper floors, maybe go back out some time later to a different store. Right now, the electronics were your main concern. Quietly, you navigated the concourse area, keeping to the shadows and trying not to sniff the smell of decay. Most of the zombies milling around seemed to be congregated around the grocery level, at least. Likely drawn by the smell, or perhaps there’d been a shelter down there, where people met their unfortunate demise.

You didn’t want to think about it. It was an uncomfortable feeling, knowing that t could’ve been you, out shopping for groceries on the wrong day. Instead, you kept going.

Eventually, you found a working stairwell. That isn’t to say that the other stairs didn’t work, but they were in bad locations, or rarely, blocked off, be it by zombies or debris. There must’ve been a fire at some point, albeit a small one, judging by the burnt ashes. Maybe not exactly an accidental fire either, if the corpses were any say. At least they’d gotten some form of burial, however improper it was, no matter the alternative reasoning behind it.

Up you went. The stairs were grimy and poorly lit, obviously never intended to be used in a disaster. Only by the use of your were you able to navigate them, careful to avoid shattered glass or discarded things. It felt a lot like walking in a mausoleum, an unnatural silence, the feeling of something watch you. Unlike a mausoleum, though, you knew there was something in this crypt with you; in this graveyard, the corpses too lived. You didn’t allow yourself a moment to let your guard down, steadily making your way up.

Come the third floor, you met with an obstacle: furniture stacked on the stairs. You looked for a way around, but whoever had done it had make it impossible. Designed to keep intruders out, and right now, that included you. Quietly, you slipped out the map, checking to see which floor you were on. Books and media, it said, with another stairwell only a few stores down. That was fine. You made sure your mask was tied tight, your flashlight still strong, and your grip on the axe ready, before slowly pushing the door open and slipping out.

One thing you could say about the third floor was that it wasn’t nearly as bad as the ground level. Maybe no one was looking for books that day? No matter. There were still some stragglers, but not many. You glanced to one of the book stores, before deciding to go in and look around, just for a few minutes. So, in you went, taking care not to step on the pieces of broken window. 

The inside was, ironically, dusty. You smiled wryly, but continued to walk forward, going up and down the aisles in search of the medical book section. You weren’t a doctor by any means, but you wanted to try and take a stab at figuring out what exactly this disease was. Yes, it was zombies, but what? Was it mad cow disease, modified? Was it rabies? Or was it something new? The reports Samantha had gotten were inconclusive, but maybe with some of the new data you’d gotten, you’d be able to narrow it down. 

Thankfully, the medical section hadn’t been raided. You found a few books that sounded close to what you were looking for, and so you carefully set them into your back, zipping it up with a sigh. But, as you turned back around, you came face to face with what you hadn’t wanted to see: the cashier. Or, what was once the cashier. You’d hoped that since there wasn’t a body, they’d maybe been on break when it happened. But instead, they, or rather, it loomed over you, its mouth open wide and dried blood stuck to their glassy eyes. It let out a guttural noise, and all your training left you with a squeak. 

The zombie lunged. You scrambled backwards, knocking into the bookshelf and sending books tumbling down. The weight of them send a heavy sound throughout the store, and you got several groans in response, as the other zombies came to investigate the intrusion. In a flash, you sprung up, frantically grabbing your axe and swinging blindly. The arch went wide, past the head of the zombie, and it went for your arm, barely missing. Next time, you made sure not to miss, the axe embedding itself into the neck of the monster. The zombie grunted, but didn’t seem phased, readying for another attack. You could hear the others closing in on you, so you decided you had no choice and took out your pistol. One shot to the head and the zombie fell, giving you enough time to grab your axe and sprint as fast as you could away. The sharp bang of the gun had attracted all of the zombies on the floor, and they were mad. 

You didn’t waste any time. The door was blocked by bodies, so you jumped out of one of the display windows, the glass shattering around you and almost sparkling in the light of your flashlight. You stuck the landing and kept going, sprinting for the nearest stairwell and praying it wasn’t blocked. Several zombies swiped at you, but the nails had no purchase on your tough clothing. 

Slam, went the stairwell door, rebounding off the wall. You scrambled to shove it close, putting the bar in to block it off. The sound of heavy thuds, as the zombies threw themselves at the metal door, trying to bend it. You wheeled around, searching for a way out, and your heart dropped when you saw the way up was also blocked.

“No,” You whispered, before shouting, “No!”

The door behind you began to indent. You could try to go down again, but from the sounds of it, that wouldn’t end well either. Your mind began to panic, going into hyperdrive, the fear and terror of a cornered animal. You were going to die, and all you could think of was ‘what about Bumblebee? What about Soundwave?’

“Hey!” A frantic whisper. Your heart stopped another time, as you realized it wasn’t your voice, but someone else. Another person. You shot to the source, seeing a person on top of the barricade. They held their arm out, “Come on!”

You didn’t need to be told twice. You ran over, using your free hand to grab theirs, before pulling yourself up. Just in time, too, as the doorframe began to pop off. You and the other survivor bounded up the stairs, and they closed the door behind themselves. More people ran to block it off, furniture and makeshift blockades, and as they did that, you finally allowed yourself to collapse.


End file.
